


find a thread to pull, and we can watch it unravel

by again_please



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Finn doesn't want to talk about it, First Kiss, Leia called it, Light touch-starved vibes, Loss of Virginity, Sharing a Bed, drinking buddies, end of war party, liquid courage, spot the Spuffy references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/again_please/pseuds/again_please
Summary: “They’ll treat you fairly. They have to, after everything.”“I don’t particularly want to discuss it now. I was trying to enjoy this night, you might recall.”“Well, the party’s back there,” she quips, downright relieved to hear the ever-present dryness back in his voice in place of the utterly bleak defeat of just a moment before. “Not sure how you missed it.”“You seem to have a very different definition of the wordenjoythan I do.”-The war is over, Snoke dead at Rey and Kylo's hands. The two of them find themselves feeling a bit out of place as the Resistance celebrates, and decide that the answer is a bit of good old fashioned Corellian whiskey. Enjoyed responsibly, of course. And in private.





	1. Chapter 1

Forty-eight hours. 

 

It has been forty-eight hours since the blades of Rey’s saberstaff passed through Snoke’s body with so little resistance that for an instant, she’d feared that she’d missed.

 

Forty-eight hours since she’d watched him collapse at her feet, surprised at the heaviness of the sound as the body hit the floor, as though all along part of her had suspected him to be a conjuring, a creature of shadow and nightmare. Nothing so substantial as flesh and bone.

 

Forty-seven hours since she’d managed to rally her screaming muscles and drag Kylo’s broken body to the transport ship, where a confusion of hands and arms and voices had separated them for immediate treatment.

 

Forty-five since a frantic lieutenant had burst into the room where Rey had been numbly recounting her side of the battle to Leia Organa, sputtering news about a surrender.

 

Forty-four hours since victory had been declared. 

 

And now, after everything, they celebrate. Somehow.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s difficult to say where all the food and drink suddenly comes from, to say nothing of all the lights and music. But for this evening there is no more supply shortage, no power rationing, no ever-present fear of discovery and attack hanging over their heads, and the exuberant expressions on everyone’s faces are difficult to put a price on.

 

Rey sits with a dazed smile in the midst of her friends as they laugh and shout and trade stories, even letting Finn force a mug of  _ something  _ into her hands. She nurses it obediently as they grow steadily more drunk around her, but she herself has little to say, chuckling quietly at their antics and defaulting to solemn nods as the inevitable hands descend to pat her on the back, clap her on the shoulder, to commend her for her heroism, her service, her valor. 

 

It’s not that she doesn’t care. It seems wrong to be alone now, when all the galaxy is celebrating, and just maybe all this noise is drowning out the memory of the way bodies sound when they hit the ground, of sabers slashing and humming, of tormented shouts of pain at the hands of a cruel master. But  _ Force _ , it’s been two days and she’s stolen maybe an hour of sleep at a time in between all the medical evals, the debriefings, the meetings—and now this.  

 

So she can’t say she’s too disappointed as the alcohol and music finally conspire to work their magic, luring her friends away from their table and onto the paved airstrip currently serving as a makeshift dance floor. Rey finds herself stifling a laugh into her barely-touched drink as she watches a particularly sloshed Poe throw his arms around Finn’s neck as though for a slow dance, despite the peppy beat of the song.

 

Despite her exhaustion, there’s something entrancing about observing her friends’ happiness from a safe distance. She’s not even totally sure she’d be  _ able _ to sleep if she retreated back to her modest little cot in the barracks—her brief snatches of rest so far have all been light and restless no matter the hour, as though trying to close her eyes against blazing sunshine—and so here seems as good a place as any to enjoy a few moments of relative peace out in the humid evening air.

 

Rey closes her eyes to savor the gentle night breeze as she takes another timid sip of her drink. She’s  _ beginning _ to understand what all the fuss is about, she thinks, but it still seems borderline crazy to her that people recreationally dehydrate themselves—until something  _ more _ than breeze suddenly stirs the air around her.

 

Force, is he really up and walking around already? 

 

It’s not  _ impossible _ , she supposes. But he’d been in rough shape as the two of them escaped from Snoke’s chambers, covered in burns and slashes and likely suffering more broken bones than Rey had been able to estimate just by looking at him. He’d taken the brunt of his old master’s punishment during their fight, just as they’d predicted during their numerous planning sessions with Luke. But nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it, of seeing pain inflicted so casually, so effortlessly. The way Kylo’s body had twisted before she finally broke free of her hold and threw herself between them—Rey forces the thought away with a shudder.  

 

He’d been conscious when they’d parted, but just barely. Only enough to murmur something incomprehensible over and over as she summoned every last ounce of the Force she could into her legs and arms, to give herself enough strength to bear his weight as the two of them stumbled to the exit. Something that had possibly, maybe, sounded like her name.

 

Rey knew it was nothing that treatment couldn’t fix, and yet, she’d expected someone in his condition to be laid up in the medical ward for at least a week. To feel him out here now, she almost expects him to come stumbling through the middle of the party half-dead, trailing medical equipment still hooked into him, aghast dancers parting to make way before witnessing his collapse on the airstrip.  

 

But she doesn’t see him when she opens her eyes. Still, there is no doubt in her mind that he is near. 

 

Kylo Ren, the feared and hated warlord, who had been ostracized by nearly the entire Resistance despite having been working on their side for over a year now; who spends every waking moment outside of their missions either training or providing intel during lengthy sessions with General Organa and her deputies. Ben Solo, the famous loner. Rousing himself from his damned hospital bed to come  _ here. _ To a  _ party.  _

 

Rey finds herself rising to her feet before she can think better of it. She nearly leaves the mug behind, but then picks it back up from the table on a whim before straying away.  

 

The crowd here is a veritable forest of bodies, but Rey winds her way through it at a leisurely pace, clutching her drink to her chest partially to keep from it spilling and partially as something of a shield. But she might as well be invisible now for the amount of attention anyone pays her, and she doesn’t mind one bit; she drifts between the revelers unnoticed, a leaf on the water, all the while telling herself she’s not headed anywhere in particular.

 

The tugging in her mind shifts direction minutely, as though on the move now as well.

 

The party seems to encompass nearly the entire base, but Rey notices the crowd thinning out closer to the treeline; people preferring to stay closer to the lights and music. Rey pushes on, choosing her steps carefully in the dark as she enters the wooded area. The sound of the nearby stream greets her as noise and chatter begins to die away the further in she goes.

 

A silhouette stands on the stream’s old wooden bridge, hunched over and leaning on the railing, outlined by the reflection of white moonlight on the water. An image floods back to her of his crumpled body convulsing on the gleaming black floor of Snoke’s chambers, and whatever flippant comment she’d been about to make dies on her tongue. He’d stepped in front of her to intercept that current of shrieking dark energy.

 

“I would have thought you’d be in the thick of it,” he says finally, when he seems to have grown tired of being observed in silence. He doesn’t look at her, speaking down into the water instead. “Out there. With your friends.”

 

“I was,” she says. She drifts closer, wooden boards creaking under her feet as she approaches the railing, resting her elbows on it with her drink still clutched in her hands. There’s enough room for two, maybe three people to stand between them. “Just wanted a moment alone.”

 

Rey is looking straight on at the water, but she can feel his head turn toward her, the sudden awkwardness that always seems to arrive when the two of them are alone with no humming lightsabers to fill the silence. 

 

“I can be alone with you here,” she adds quietly, risking a sideways glance at him of her own. She’d felt him begin to move away from the railing, but at her words, he halts. 

 

In the moonlight, it is abundantly clear that he has  _ not _ completed treatment for all of his injuries, not remotely. The blood and grime of battle is long gone, of course, but the whole area around his right eye is still a fairly gruesome sight, blackened and puffy with a nasty crescent-shaped cut around the perimeter of the socket. The bridge of his nose is bruised as well, his lower lip cut and swollen on one side to nearly twice its normal size. She can’t help it—she grimaces openly.

 

This isn’t new behavior on his part. Throughout all of their missions over the past year, he’s  _ always _ made an ordeal out of receiving medical attention for anything he deems a “superficial” injury—and maintains a much looser definition of the word “superficial” than Rey is apt to agree with. She’d practically had to hold him down to allow the med droids to work on him when he’d been grazed by a blaster bolt on one of their last excursions before the mission to take down Snoke had been set into motion. You might as well forget about even  _ trying  _ to get near his face.          

 

The funny thing is, she’s pretty sure it’s not even some kind of Dark Side preoccupation at this point. The man simply does  _ not _ like to be touched.

 

His look darkens slightly at her reaction, but he gives her a curt nod anyway, slowly moving back into position—perhaps an inch or two closer now.

 

“And you?” she asks. “This isn’t exactly where I’d expect to find you, either.”

 

“I expect it won’t be long before the euphoria dies down and they begin the proceedings against captured First Order personnel,” he responds. “I thought I ought to try and enjoy what will likely be one of my last nights of freedom.” 

 

She balks. “But the terms of your agreement—” 

 

“—Were based entirely on my ability to help turn the tides against Snoke,” he cuts in grimly. “The war is over, and I am no longer useful. My crimes remain. My mother’s influence cannot overrule the galaxy’s need for retribution forever.”

 

Rey swallows an inexplicable urge to deny this statement even as she recognizes the harsh truths behind it. “They’ll treat you fairly. They have to, after everything.”

 

“I don’t particularly want to discuss it now. I was trying to enjoy this night, you might recall.”

 

“Well, the party’s back there,” she quips, downright relieved to hear the ever-present dryness back in his voice in place of the utterly bleak  _ defeat  _ of just a moment before. “Not sure how you missed it.”

 

“You seem to have a very different definition of the word  _ enjoy  _ than I do.”

 

And damn this blasted  _ drink _ Finn shoved into her hands, because she snorts openly this time, drawing what feels embarrassingly like a look of disbelief from Kylo Ren.

 

“Well,” she says quickly, “Maybe you need this more than I do, then.” Grateful for the dark concealing her face as she feels heat begin to creep up her neck—Force, is she  _ tipsy? _ From  _ half _ a glass of ale?—Rey slides her mug towards him along the railing until it sits halfway between them.

 

He’s silent for just long enough that Rey considers whether turning around and pretending this conversation never happened might be an acceptable option to preserve her dignity. Then, finally, he reaches inside the lining of his jacket for something, drawing out a small, dark shape that he then holds out to her with an odd twist to his mouth.

 

A flask. Rey stares in disbelief for a moment before Kylo nods at it, giving it a little brandish, and she slowly takes it from him, turning it over in her hands. It’s not like she’s never  _ seen  _ one before—she’d found a fair few in the wreckage of starfighters back on Jakku, long dried out and which she’d usually kept around as scrap metal for her own purposes, considering that they were too insignificant to trade in for portions and much too small to hold an adequate amount of water. 

 

And of course, she’s seen plenty of Resistance fighters passing them back and forth during their off-duty downtime, especially in the wake of a failed mission or lost battle. But something about this gesture seems so incredibly  _ Han  _ that she can’t breathe for a moment, remembering their brief friendship, remembering how he died, and how conflicted her anger over it feels now, how even in victory there is little the war hasn’t ruined, that  _ Snoke _ hasn’t ruined even in death—death at  _ her _ hands—

 

She unscrews the tiny cap and lifts it to her lips more quickly than is probably wise...and positively  _ chokes _ as the contents hit the back of her throat. 

 

Rey doubles over the railing, spraying alcohol into the water below as a cough forces its way out of her mouth, her throat and tongue and gums  _ burning _ like she’s nearly ingested the contents of a fuel cell rather than something meant for human consumption.  

 

“What  _ is _ that?” she rasps, “Rhydonium?”

Rey holds the flask back out for him to take and steels herself for a response. As she has come to understand it, the worse a type of liquor tastes, the more expensive it must be, and here she has likely sprayed about a quarter of it into the river. He has turned his back fully to her now, and at first she thinks he really  _ must _ be angry—until he reveals a glimpse of his face as he angles himself to take the flask back from her.  

 

He’s  _ grinning  _ at her.

 

Mind, he’s doing his absolute best to try and hide it, teeth biting down hard on the side of his mouth that isn’t swollen in an attempt to keep his mouth straight. It’s a battle he loses quickly once he’s forced to open his mouth to respond, and she sees the flash of white teeth in bluish moonlight before he can stop himself.

 

Well. Fancy that.

 

“Not quite,” he says, resorting to scratching his nose in a rather obvious manner to block her view of it while he tries to get himself under control. But lucky him, she’s temporarily distracted with the task of figuring out  _ why _ exactly that millisecond smile is so disarming; if it’s the rarity with which she sees it or the unexpectedly charming crookedness in an otherwise serious face. “Corellian whiskey. It’s not for everyone.”

 

“Oh shut up,” she says, using the back of her hand to wipe her mouth in as dignified a manner as possible. Which is to say, not at all. 

 

“I mean it,” he tells her, “It’s quite strong. I should have warned you.” But the ghost of that smile in his voice tells her he doesn’t regret it  _ that _ much, the bastard. He then raises the flask to his own lips and takes a quick pull of it, doesn’t so much as grimace. “I had much the same reaction when I first tried it. I was...thirteen, perhaps.”

 

“ _ Thirteen? _ Who would possibly give—ah. Right.” Rey halts abruptly off Kylo’s look. This is not a place she cares to tread with him, not a spiraling discussion of crisis and betrayal and identity she wants to have right now. Not tonight. Not when they’re supposed to be  _ enjoying _ themselves, at least for this little while. 

 

“Well, give it here then,” she says after a moment, and holds her hand out for the flask once more. In answer, Kylo’s eyebrows ascend into the stratosphere. 

 

“You just told me I have the constitution of a child,” she explains. “You think I’m going to take that lying down? Hand it over.”    

 

“A moment ago you spat about five credits worth of it into the river. I’m not convinced that would be the best use of what may be the last drink I ever have that isn’t brewed inside a prison toilet.” 

 

He knocks back another sip as if to punctuate the statement, and like that, Rey is filling her lungs with air for a furious rebuttal. She’s not even sure what she’s going to argue first, his pessimism or his refusal to share—but then there’s that stupid smirk again, an almost heartbreaking juxtaposition with the rest of his bloodied face. 

 

“I have a marginally better idea,” he says, and reaches one long arm out for the mug of ale still sitting between them on the rail. He steals a look at her, a quick flash of white moon in dark eyes as he glances up, perhaps watching for objections as he draws her drink toward him. Rey only angles her head curiously, observing in silence as he tilts the mouth of the flask over the rim of the mug, splashing out a modest portion of whiskey to mix with the contents before righting it again. He slides it back toward her, leaving it at the midpoint between them.

 

It’s a much less ambitious amount than she’d just tried to inhale, but still, she eyes it warily. Grasping the handle, she pulls the mug closer and peers into it before raising it to her lips for a taste. 

 

She feels herself pulling a face against her will but swallows determinedly. 

 

“It’s—” she’s about to say  _ awful _ , but at least her mouth isn’t on fire this time, so she forces herself to take a moment to process it. Beneath that first absurdly bitter bite of alcohol, she detects a hint of spicy smoke flavor crossing her tongue. “—Better, actually,” she finishes, and takes another tentative sip, feeling the mixture warming her insides at an alarming rate. 

 

Kylo raises the flask in a mock toast. “To being alone,” he declares.

 

His tone might sound off-putting to anyone else, but Rey has spent a little time over the past year learning to decipher the varying levels of dryness in his voice. She’s not positive, but she could swear he almost sounds...pleased.

 

Somehow emboldened by this thought, she takes another, deeper sip, and another. The two of them drink in silence for a few oddly comfortable minutes, and Rey feels a warm, wobbly looseness begin in her legs at the same time that it apparently makes its way to the speech center of her brain.

 

“Why won’t you let them heal you?” she practically blurts, unable to pretend that he’s not standing beside her looking like tenderized meat for a second longer.

 

Amazingly, he doesn’t tense up at all beside her. If anything, he simply sounds...tired. “Can’t bear to look at this ugly mug, hm?”

 

“It’s not—” she begins reflexively, and she feels something prickle oddly on his end of their connection before making her fumbling recovery, “—shut up, alright. Just give me a straight answer for once.”

 

“I’ll never understand why the simple fact that _I don’t like it_ is not enough for you,” Kylo grumbles. “That’s it. That’s all. No mystery.”

 

“You don’t like having  _ painful injuries removed _ ,” Rey says, echoing the earlier dryness in his voice fairly masterfully. They must have had this discussion hundreds of times by now.

 

“Not by fumbling droids or by having a hose strapped to your face and being plunged for hours into a watery tomb, no, not particularly,” he answers tightly. 

 

“Well, what about…” Rey passes a hand in front of her own face, wiggling her fingers mystically. Stars, she should really dump the rest of this drink into the river.

 

If his voice had been strained before, it’s downright  _ black _ now. “You know I can’t.”

 

Kriff. “That’s not what I meant,” she says quickly, feeling unwelcome heat come back into her face as his eyebrows go up again, and  _ Force, _ why can’t she stop talking all of a sudden? “I could—if you wanted—or, I mean, Luke also—”

 

Kylo seems to have perfected the art of stretching his silences just long enough to make her squirm. “I’m more than accustomed to the natural healing process. And I doubt very much my uncle would want to spend that kind of energy on me, of all people.”

 

Of course, completely  _ ignoring _ the first part of her statement. He’s doing this on purpose. He has to be.

 

“Well. Like I said,” Rey swallows. “There’s me.”

 

Why in the world this is suddenly so awkward is beyond Rey, but she’s strongly considering heaving herself over the railing if he says no. It’s not like she hasn’t healed anyone before. She’s patched up Finn more than once in the field, and even performed a fairly impressive healing on Master Luke’s arm in the heat of battle that she’s still rather proud of, although she’s never quite been able to replicate such flawless results since. 

 

When he finally grants her an answer, it’s delivered with the flask just inches from his lips, poised for another swig. “You know,” he says, “One of these days you're going to run into something you can’t fix.” 

 

Always the weighty, vague statements with this one. Best to steamroll right over them, she’s found. “Haven’t yet,” Rey shoots back.

 

Kylo regards her for another moment before letting his head drop with a gusty sigh. “This is truly what you want?”

 

Rey eyes him. Why does it feel like he’s talking about something much more serious than healing a few cuts on his face? “Cut the mysterious act. What are you so afraid of?”

 

She expects him to react to the taunt, and the absence of his anger almost alarms her more. Instead, he knocks back what must be the full remainder of the flask with such a prolonged swig that her jaw actually drops open. “Nothing,” he grunts finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. And then: “Do it.”

 

Rey’s heart crawls right up into her throat. Stars, after all the hundreds of times she’s offered, she hadn’t actually thought he’d ever say  _ yes _ . 

 

Hesitantly, she probes the connection between them. Though they’d long ago agreed to respect each other’s privacy and shield themselves from one another except during missions, she’s hoping for just a scrap of insight into this utterly bizarre change of heart—but with a jolt of shame, she finds him still completely closed off from her. In fact, it somehow feels more deliberate than usual, as though he’s actively straining with his end of the bond like someone throwing their weight against a door to hold it shut. She withdraws immediately. 

 

Perhaps the alcohol is getting to him. 

 

“Um,” she says rather intelligently, “Alright.” She takes a cautious step towards him, fretting a bit over the way the height difference between then becomes even more pronounced the closer they are together. It’s not like she can’t  _ reach _ him, but her arms are sure to tire out quickly if she has to stretch them up to his face for more than a few moments—and she can’t imagine asking him to  _ kneel _ for her, that seems a bit—

 

Broad hands come around her waist before she can finish that thought, and she yelps—yes, actually yelps, no, she’s not proud of it—as she’s lifted off her feet and deposited on to the wooden bar of the railing, now effectively at eye level with Kylo Ren. They stare at each other.

 

“I think you’re  _ drunk _ ,” she accuses after a moment of speechlessness, but his expression doesn’t change, his eyes don’t move from hers, and she feels her indignation wither under his scrutiny. This is very serious for him.

 

Swallowing hard, Rey slowly brings her hands up to hover by the sides of his face. His eyes close, not quite harshly enough to be a flinch, but certainly in reaction. She wants to say something to reassure him but can think of nothing. Instead, she decides the best thing she can do for him is to focus on the task at hand. 

 

Reaching inward, she finds the place inside herself where the Force waits to be called upon, and gently, gently, lays her fingers upon each side of his face. He lets out a ragged breath, and her mouth goes strangely dry—she has not begun healing yet. 

 

There is much to be done. First, Rey lets her fingers drift feather-light up to his battered eye, careful not to apply so much as a twitch of pressure to the swollen black and blue skin. With steadying breaths she lets Light flow between them, directing it to spread to every broken blood vessel, every inch of inflamed tissue. The dark, bruised color begins to leach from the area as she works, the nasty swelling slowly deflating to a healthy state before her eyes. She tilts her head in concentration as she moves to the half-moon laceration around the outer edge, urging the raw-looking edges of skin to knit back together with gentle direction of her will. Kylo makes a small, strangled sound deep in his throat and leans forward to brace himself, a white-knuckled hand clutching the railing on either side of her hips.

 

“It hurts?” she asks, bewildered as to how that could be possible with the Light, but he shakes his head minutely. The small movement makes her heart skitter oddly, as though this moment is somehow safer, more sterile, so long as he keeps still.

 

When the last traces of injury are gone from his eye, Rey drifts next to the bridge of his nose. Unbidden, an image of him collapsing face-first as Snoke had toyed with him rushes to the front of her mind. She can even remember the sickening  _ crunch,  _ the very moment this particular injury must have been inflicted—are her fingers moving over him a bit more than is strictly necessary now? She bites her lip. A static touch would be sufficient, but she catches herself practically caressing him, a back and forth motion of her thumbs on either side of his nose, sweeping lightly across where the bruising extends to his cheekbones. 

 

Horrified, she stills her fingers immediately—though he can’t heal so long as he favors the Dark, it’s not like he never studied the ways of the Light, he was his uncle’s student for years, he  _ knows _ how it’s supposed to be done, what’s necessary and what isn’t, what must he think—

 

“No—” he blurts, and though he catches himself, it’s too late—that strained hold on his end of the bond that Rey had felt before suddenly gives way, their connection flooding open once more. She has perhaps a fraction of a second to worry about him having access to her thoughts in this moment before the sheer  _ enormity _ of what he’s feeling on his end on the bond slams into her.

 

Yes, he noticed her going overboard with her ministrations. But he doesn’t want her to stop. In fact, that choked off  _ no _ had been him about to beg her  _ not  _ to stop. It feels  _ good.  _ The pure, glowing warmth she is infusing him with is enough to drive him mad—enough to make  _ her _ dizzy just feeling it secondhand. Heat flushes her cheeks and neck, pools low in her belly in a way that makes her want to pull him closer.

 

Force,  _ this _ is what healing does to people? Mortified, she recalls Luke’s arm, all the times she’s taken care of Finn—but Kylo’s voice comes alive in her head.

 

_ It’s not the healing,  _ he tells her. _ It’s you. I never could handle you. _

 

Rey quakes, lightheaded from their contact and the euphoria of her own healing felt through him. She takes his chin firmly in hand. His eyes pop open, and somehow that’s exactly what she wants, his eyes on her as she moves her attention to the last part that needs it: his swollen, busted lip.

 

Maybe it’s the ale, maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s neither. But Rey thinks she could get used to this, the way he stares at her with hooded eyes, entranced and terrified all at once, as she runs the pad of her thumb gingerly over the split skin. His lips part as the tissue heals beneath her touch, hot breath ghosting over her fingertips. 

 

“Say what you're thinking,” Rey demands, rushing the words out before her nerves can catch up to her.

 

He is a man starved, looking at her. “You know what I'm thinking.”

 

And oh, that certainly thrills her as it is, but she won't be denied. “I want to hear you say it.”

 

She actually  _ feels _ his heart skip at those words, marvels at the heady feeling this power over him gives her. 

 

“I was thinking about kissing you,” he confesses, dark and low. If she’s not mistaken, she’d swear he actually braces himself before adding, “I think about it a lot.”

 

Rey has to drain the reserves of her willpower to keep a ridiculous grin from splitting her face. And perhaps for yet more whiskey-and-ale related reasons, the next thing out of her mouth is: “So why haven’t you?”

 

“Because you’ve never done it before.”

 

Rey isn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. Though her face flares red, there’s no point trying to deny it. There was a time not so long ago when the bond was new that the barriers between their minds had been so thin she thought she was going mad—flares of emotion that were not her own, spikes of pain transferred from him to her despite the light years between them. He’d seen a great deal of her memories, just as she had often found herself sucked into the vortex of his spiralling thoughts. He’d been in her  _ dreams.  _ They’d gone days with only each other for company on missions, spent most of their time training together on base. Of course he knew she’d never... had never...

 

“What? Afraid I’d be terrible?” Rey jokes, letting her gaze drop from his in an effort to conceal the sting of his words.

 

But then his hand comes beneath her chin, gently tipping her head back up to stare into her eyes.

 

“I didn’t think you’d want it to be me.”

 

And  _ kriff,  _ why there are suddenly tears pricking her eyes she has  _ no _ idea, but she blinks them away furiously, surprised by the anger coloring her voice when she replies, “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

 

And before he can even fully register the barb, she seizes a fistful of his jacket and drags him forward to press her lips to his before she can lose her nerve.

 

It’s a quick, hard kiss, her mouth pressed tightly to his before abruptly letting him go. Kylo staggers backwards a step as she releases his jacket, and just as she in turn begins to lose balance, gravity threatening to draw her into the swooping sense of  _ nothing _ behind her, his hands are there in an instant, spread across her lower back to steady her. 

 

Rey has seen other kisses, and she knows that this one could be considered almost childishly chaste in comparison to the tongue-swapping action she’s seen exchanged when stumbling upon romantically entangled Resistance fighters, and even in some of the holoshows Jessika has introduced her to. And honestly, that makes the stunned, breathless look upon Kylo’s face all the more impressive.  

 

“Rey—” he begins, and she can feel the doubt, the fear that this may still be yanked away from him somehow.

 

“I’m not  _ that _ drunk,” she murmurs. “I know what I’m doing.” 

 

When he remains frozen, eyes searching over her face as though looking for the clue that will give the whole thing away as a trick, she leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek. Softly, this time. Slowly. She pulls back, gauges the uncertainty still in his eyes, and leans in again. This time, a lingering kiss to the very corner of his mouth, avoiding the lips themselves. She isn’t really sure what she’s doing here; she’s not much the type for a calculated seduction. All she knows is that there are places on his face, his body, that have drawn her eye for months, and here she has the chance familiarize herself with as many of them as he’ll allow.

 

When Rey pulls back a second time, his eyes have finally softened, the doubt replaced by something much more preferable: anticipation. And yet still he says nothing, makes no move towards her in return. Rey can feel his silent wish loud and clear.  _ Keep going.  _

 

In slow succession, her lips press to his other cheek, the tip of his nose, and the warm pulse point beneath his jaw. Though she’s the one in his arms, he seems to be melting against her as she moves to each new spot. When she finds the hollow of his throat, he actually  _ shudders,  _ fingers curling into the fabric of her tunic at the small of her back.

 

She drifts up to the other corner of his mouth, but a flare of impatient hunger is all the warning she gets before he angles his head suddenly, capturing her lips in a much slower, softer caress than the one she’d planted on him. 

 

_ No more teasing  _ floats across the bond, and she has no idea which one of them it originates from, or if it’s simply an understanding that blossoms between them. She can taste the spiced smoke of the whiskey on him, and she has to say, she prefers it a lot more in this form. One of Kylo’s hands leaves her lower back, and she misses its warmth for a split second before it reappears to support the back of her head, drawing her nearer to him as he gently coaxes her mouth open to deepen the kiss.

 

She’s less self-conscious about her inexperience with this part than she’d anticipated; with their connection now open and flowing freely, there is no space for misunderstanding between them. The moment Rey processes how  _ good _ his hand feels cradling the back of her head, he weaves his fingers into her hair, digging himself in even further. She slows the frantic pace of her response to him as he urges  _ slowly, slowly _ across the bond, and feels his head practically spin as she experimentally strokes her tongue along his own.

 

And he’d thought she wouldn’t want it to be him. Force. As if anyone else had a chance.

 

This particular thought must come across the bond very clearly, because he pulls away suddenly to look her in the eyes, both hands now holding the sides of her face as the two of them take a moment to catch their breath.

 

The look lasts only a matter of seconds before he slants his mouth over hers once more, but it’s enough.

 

Enough to know that they’re  _ definitely _ in trouble here.

 

But for tonight, they’re just trying to enjoy themselves. At least for this little while. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I've been able to write in a WHILE and it made me feel good to finally post something, even just a vaguely fluffy drinking buddies idea that made me giggle, so I'm very grateful you took the time to make it all the way down the page to this note. I think, perhaps, the one-shot is the format for me. Thank you for reading, friends!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this chapter was written pre-TLJ, so it's still pretty safely spoiler free if that's something you're worried about. Some key things are now decidedly non-canon, but at this point I'm not going to try and cram too many TLJ references in to make it more canon, so this story is now floating in a kind of nebulous in-universe AU category---but hey, I'll watch these nerds make out in ANY universe, I'm not picky.

Whether they actually hear footsteps approaching or if they merely sense someone about to encroach on their territory is unclear. But when they break apart, both heads swivelling in the same direction like animals scenting an unwelcome trespasser, Rey knows one thing for sure: this moment is fragile, and it will evaporate before her eyes if she lets it.

 

She imagines what will happen if neither of them says something in the next fraction of a second, the excuses they might make: _my friends will be wondering...you ought to be getting back…_

 

She would pull away, he would instantly retreat back into his dour shell. Would one of them simply walk away? She might insist on escorting him to the medical ward he’d wandered out of, awkward silence stretching between them the entire trek back. Was she supposed to just return to her bed in the barracks, alone all night with a brand new addition to the list of problems causing her insomnia?

 

Not tonight, she thinks. She turns back to face him, gently leaning her forehead against his own, and she can _feel_ the relief flood through him.

 

“We should move,” she whispers. Kylo responds with an odd little groan that manages to convey quite a bit of reluctance while agreeing with her at the same time, and which inexplicably floods her cheeks with color.

 

Rey expects him to take a step back to allow her to hop down from her seat on the railing, but instead, she feels herself being dragged forward suddenly, his hands gripping the underside of her thighs to pull her legs tight around his hips. She reflexively locks her ankles together behind his back just in time to feel her whole weight hefted into his arms, and he attacks her mouth once more with renewed vigor, as if letting her know his own stance on the idea of letting this moment evaporate.

 

He lingers long enough to make her wonder if it’s his intention to stand here and just let them be discovered, and it’s all she can do to just hold on and try to keep up. The sensation of him pressed so tight, so close, with her legs wrapped around his hips makes her heart speed up tenfold, and she wonders for a moment if it’s wrong to consider going just a bit further scarcely ten minutes after being kissed for the first time in her life, if she ought to be more scandalized—she’s waited so long, after all, she’s in her twenties when most people experience these things as adolescents, maybe it’s more like catching up—

 

Kylo pulls away, huffs a single, dark ghost of a chuckle against her lips. “You’re going to kill me, you keep thinking like that.”

 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, somewhat embarrassed by her own eagerness, and his teasing smirk fades. He tilts his head to force her to meet his eyes again, and she finds them dark and serious, drawing her in. He starts to put her down—but rather than simply setting her on her feet, he loosens his grip on her just the slightest bit, keeping their bodies pressed tightly together, letting her slide down the length of him with agonizing slowness until her feet find the wooden planks of the bridge beneath her.

 

Well then.

 

Her arms are still looped around his neck, and she slowly has to disentangle her hands from his hair before she can fully descend from the balls of her feet. She trails a finger lightly along the side of his face, and feels her heart nearly seize as he turns his cheek into the touch, looking almost forlorn as she pulls her hand away to rest at her side.

 

Yes, this was _definitely_ the right decision.

 

They most certainly do hear footsteps this time around, belonging to what sounds like two people headed down the wooded path leading from the bridge back to the base, twigs snapping underfoot. With renewed purpose, Rey seizes Kylo’s sleeve, abandoning her tankard where it sits on the railing before pulling him towards the other side of the bridge leading deeper into the forest.

 

The two of them have snuck into enemy territory together with the utmost stealth countless times, and you wouldn’t know it at all in this moment from the way Kylo practically crashes through the underbrush behind her as she dashes ahead of him. She can feel his breathlessness, the adrenaline surging through his veins, and she’s helpless against the giddy, nervous grin that breaks out across her face from knowing _she_ has done this to him.

 

Inspired partially by that giddiness and, yes, partially by the whiskey still warming her blood, Rey releases her hold on his arm and shoots a mischievous look over her shoulder before darting ahead just a little bit faster.

 

_Get back here,_ she hears him growl across the bond, and it’s absolutely the wrong thing to say to her in this moment if he _actually_ wants her to stop, because it only spikes her pulse higher, makes her grin stretch even wider as she increases her pace even more. He may be larger than her, stronger than her, but she has always been faster even without the Force aiding her movements. And that’s in _spite_ of his unfairly long stride.

 

She dodges branches, hops over roots and stones, sailing down a small embankment with ease as the ground begins to slope downward towards another treeline, beyond which she can see the sparkle of moonlight on dark water.  Her mind inevitably makes the connection to other times he has pursued her like this, times when her heart was thundering with fear rather than excitement, feet pounding the ground as he chased her across one landscape or another, and remembers the way that she never really feared for her _life_ any of those times. Her freedom, certainly, but never her life. It had always been clear that he never wanted to _kill_ her; to interrogate her, to teach her, to bring her to his master, yes. But he’d wanted her alive. He’d always _wanted_ her for something, even though at times she didn’t understand what that was.

 

_I’m fairly certain you know now,_ he tells her, and even as that thrills her, she almost huffs a laugh at the way even his inner voice sounds out of breath.

 

Rey bursts through the treeline, practically skidding to a halt to slow herself down before she charges straight off the lake’s small dock into the water. She drops her hands to her knees, folding in half at the waist to catch her breath—just as two arms come around from behind to band like steel around her middle, hoisting her into the air once more.

 

“See if I ever put you down again,” Kylo growls into her ear, and she positively _shivers._ He seems to be savoring her, breathing her in slowly, deeply, as he trails his mouth lightly down the side of her neck, and suddenly she is melting against him where she’d been squirming to get free just a moment before. She feels him brush against their connection, as natural as breathing, and his voice is sad when he speaks next. “You are exhausted.”

 

“I’m in better shape than you,” she quips, well aware that’s not what he means.

 

Still, he humors her. “Is that right?” he asks, before abruptly shifting her in his arms so that he can support her legs now as well, staring into her eyes as he holds her across his chest, one steady, strong arm under her knees and the other behind her back. If a single one of the muscles cradling her trembles or strains with the effort, she certainly doesn’t feel it.

 

Show off.

 

“Put me _down_ ,” Rey scolds him, in hopes of disguising the way her breath catches as he handles her like she weighs nothing at all. He complies at once, setting her on the rocky lake shore, but he isn’t done with her yet.

 

“You haven’t slept,” he says, returning to his earlier comment. A fact, indisputable.

 

“And you have?” Rey retorts softly. Even in the dark of night, the ever-present circles beneath his eyes are visible.

 

He brushes off the comment, instead bringing a hand up to cup the side of her face. “I’ve never slept well. That is not what we are discussing.”

 

The warmth of his hand on her cheek makes her eyes drift closed, but she opens them again a moment later. She’s kept this inside since the moment the war ended at her feet, and in front of her is the only, the _only_ person who can possibly understand. “I thought...when he died...when I killed him—”

 

“That it would be over. Just like that.” Kylo’s voice is low and even.

 

“It’s stupid.”

 

“It is _not_ ,” he grits out.

 

“I...I was standing there, looking down at his body,” Rey goes on, encouraged by his understanding, “And hearing explosions up above, on the surface. I could still hear blasterfire. People shouting. I still needed to find a way to get us to our extraction point in one piece. And it hit me how...how it wasn’t really enough. How much damage he’s done that won’t ever be fixed, not even with him gone. And in my dreams...he’s still there. In my head again.”    

 

Rey actually _wishes_ she would tear up, but her eyes are dry as she speaks, her voice distant and hollow. Kylo’s eyes are dark, his face pained as he listens, but he makes no move to interrupt. It would be a relief to cry, to let something _out_ rather than continuing to endure, endure, endure as she has for years, since the day she was left on Jakku. Like a stone in the desert, worn away just a little bit more with each passing hour by wind and sand.

 

“So no,” she finishes, “I haven’t slept. I don’t _want_ to sleep, especially not with twenty other people in the same room to witness every time I wake up screaming. And I...I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. Not yet. I just...want to be _here_ , tonight. You know what I mean?”

 

Kylo’s voice is hoarse, low. “I know exactly what you mean.”

 

Rey blinks, tries to shake the melancholy off, but the fact is that she is _tired_ right down to her bones. “What do you do when you don’t want to sleep?”

 

To her surprise, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “You are familiar with my old method, I believe.”  

 

Ah. Of course. She’d long ago lost count of the number of times his voice had popped into her head at random intervals back before he’d turned against Snoke and the First Order, and how he’d had an uncanny knack for interrupting _her_ attempts to fall asleep while doing so, as though he had timed his own sleep schedule (or lack thereof) to match her own.

 

“Well, that’s off the table then. While _I_ am clearly captivating enough to keep you awake, _you_ are extremely boring,” Rey smiles at him, sharp as a dagger.

 

He gazes down at her, unperturbed. “I don’t know,” he says evenly, his voice almost deadly soft, “I am fairly confident I could think of a way to hold your attention.”

 

Perhaps the exhaustion is getting to her after all, because she can think of no retort, none of her razor-sharp comebacks that usually come to her as quickly as though they were holstered in her belt beside her lightsaber.

 

As she stares back into his dark, serious eyes, she has the distinct impression that there is little he wouldn’t do for her tonight if she would only just ask—that she could take things as far as she wanted and he’d gladly acquiesce. As heady of a sensation it is to feel his desire for her practically pouring across the bond, she also can’t help but feel a bit like she’s being faced with a test she hasn’t prepared for.

 

Despite the fact that she was attacking his mouth like a starved lamprey only moments ago, she feels almost shy now. Her life has been so defined by scarcity that it’s as if she never really let herself imagine getting to this point, never pursued her thoughts of longing to their logical end; that part of assumed she would be fighting forever, that she’d be _wanting_ forever.

 

Rey’s eyes flick to the dock that stretches into the shimmering black water. She inclines her head. “Sit with me?” she asks, hating the timidity in her voice that she can’t quite control.

 

Kylo’s look softens slightly, some of the intensity leaving his eyes. “Alright,” is all he says, forever wary of making himself too vulnerable, although his tone suggests a gentler sentiment.

 

Rey wanders to the end of the short dock and sits with her knees drawn up to her chest. The prospect of dangling her legs over the edge into the water is tempting, especially now that she’s become a stronger swimmer thanks to Finn’s continuing lessons, but she finds that the idea of slipping out of her boots makes her heart quicken with anxiety. She is forever unable to detach from the idea that she should be ready at all times for an enemy to appear, whether that means being ready to pursue or ready to flee.

 

“Rey,” Kylo admonishes gently as he sinks down beside her, picking up on the tenor of her thoughts, “Don’t dwell.”

 

“I know,” she murmurs, although much more comforting than his words is the sight of him trying to fold himself to fit into the space beside her on the small dock, pulling one knee up to his chest while the other lays awkwardly bent in front of him. All of a sudden, it’s all she can do to choke back a laugh.

 

“You’re going to fall off,” she tells him, trying and failing to repress a smile as he scowls and readjusts his legs to no avail. “You’re hopeless. Scooch back.”

 

“Back…?” Kylo replies, in that odd half-suspicious tone he uses when he isn’t quite sure he’s not about to be the butt of some kind of joke, but he does as she says. Rey shimmies closer until she is directly in front of him, seated with his legs on either side of her as if they’re the armrests to a chair.

 

She’s glad she’s facing away from him so part of her can pretend that she does this with all the boldness she has seen other women display so effortlessly, although she’s sure he doesn’t even need to use the bond to detect the frantic rocketing of her pulse. His chest behind her seems impossibly broad, a solid wall of warmth that she tentatively relaxes against, testing the waters, and _stars_ , in its own way this moment feels more fragile than when he’d been about to kiss her, more intimate than having his tongue practically down her throat.

 

_You seemed to enjoy that well enough,_ Kylo thinks somewhat coolly, that familiar tinge of arrogance back in his tone, but the thing about the bond is that it works both ways, and Rey can feel how that particular thought was meant to cover up the fact that he suddenly has no idea where he’s supposed to put his hands.     

 

_Switch off,_ she responds, at the same time that she reaches back to grasp one of his hands, interlacing her fingers with his before bringing it to rest on his knee beside her. This is new for them both, she has to remember.

 

She leaves the other hand where it is, propped behind them to support their weight, and takes a moment to let her eyes drift shut, savoring the sensation of him all around her; the way she moves infinitesimally with the rise and fall of his chest, how each breath out ruffles the hair at the top of her head and trickles across her scalp gently enough to make her shiver. At the same time, she can feel him marveling at her in his grasp; how slight she feels seated between his knees, her head tucked beneath his chin, how her slightest movement reverberates through him magnified tenfold. His heart pounds almost painfully hard against her back.

 

Reluctantly, Rey opens her eyes. She is trying _not_ to fall asleep, as tempting as the prospect seems in her current position. “Show me something,” she whispers.

 

Kylo’s voice is a rumble behind her. “Like what?”

 

“Something good. Something...happy.” Rey has almost nothing in her life that hasn’t been touched by war or hunger or weariness, few good memories that are not at their core still tainted by loss or fear. Moments of friendship on a backdrop of blasterfire, instances of triumph experienced alone in the sands of Jakku. The man behind her may have endless depths of pain of his own, but for him there is a _before_ to all of this.

 

Kylo squeezes her hand with just the slightest pressure, and she feels his head tilt down to rest atop her own. To her surprise, the image that he pushes across the bond is not from that _before_ —in fact, she recognizes the scene at once, although her own version was beheld from an entirely different point of view. Rey has the bizarre experience of seeing herself dashing across rocky terrain in rapidly fading evening light, the brilliant blue of her lightsaber igniting as she crests the hilltop to meet him, her enemy.

 

She knows he can feel her confusion—she had been looking for a _happy_ memory, not whatever this strange recollection may be—and in turn she feels him urge her to wait, watch.

 

Lit by her weapon, her expression is one of pure fury, the words out of her mouth a bold challenge, but Kylo’s perspective of the scene has the oddest fixation: his eyes are drawn to her hair, left half-loose and cut short to the top of her shoulders. For some reason the sight of it...the unexpected change from the three scraped-back buns she usually wears...it does something strange to him, makes him feel…

 

“You thought I looked _cute?_ ” Rey practically shrieks, half scandalized and half delighted.

 

“Missing the point as usual,” Kylo replies, irritation mixed with a healthy dose of embarrassment clear in his voice, “But...yes, it suited you very well.”

 

And the point that she’s missed is glimmering just beneath the surface. She could discover it instantly, having a direct line into his head, but nope, even with as far as they’ve come tonight, there’s no way she’s got enough of a handle on herself to go down that path right now.

 

“I had no idea you had any feelings about my hair whatsoever,” Rey blusters, focusing on something she’s got the emotional capacity for right now. This information seems counter-intuitive; according to some of the women she’d gotten close to on base, straight men as a group seem to favor longer hair. Or at least the human ones do.

 

It’s been well over a year since she cut her hair to that length, partially as a practical matter and partially as a way of gaining some emotional distance from the three-bun style she maintained for years based on an abstract fear that her family would not be able to recognize her when they returned to Jakku. Since then it has grown back fairly close to its previous length, although tonight it rests in a simple braid which she keeps pulled over one shoulder.

 

Kylo shifts so that he’s sitting up without the support of his other arm and brings that hand up to the braid in question, letting his fingers glide down the plaited strands.

 

“I like it every way,” he murmurs, still sounding a bit embarrassed, although she can feel his confidence surge when her own pulse speeds up in response to his touch.

 

“Something else,” Rey whispers, “Maybe...a time you weren’t simultaneously trying to abduct me?”

 

“That could be difficult,” he deadpans, well aware of what she’s asking and clearly trying to stall. Still, a solitary bark of laughter it forces its way out of her mouth, so she lets him take his time. His fingers find the top of her braid again and drift down slowly—once, then twice, as though the motion soothes him.

 

“Alright,” he says finally, just before he fills her head once more.

 

_This_ place Rey most certainly does not know. Sleek buildings streak past a polished viewport, jutting up from the endless, gleaming cityscape like spires. It’s a bright morning, and clearly early if the subdued atmosphere in the cabin is anything to go by, although the lanes are already full of shuttles and transports just like this one, the streets and walkways below full of pedestrians hustling to their destinations. Rey glimpses the faint reflection in the transparisteel a scant few inches away from her— _his_ —eyes; the youthful visage of a very, _very_ young Ben Solo, chin planted sulkily into one hand as he stares out.

 

She has just a second to take him in, estimating him at five, perhaps six years old here, judging by the usually sharp features softened by the sweetness of childhood and hair not yet grown long enough to cover his ears. Then the shuttle glides smoothly past the turn this young Ben had been expecting them to take, the way that leads to the Senate building, and he turns his head in the memory.

 

Rey almost gasps.    

 

She’s seen images of Leia Organa in her youth before, but most times her attention was divided amongst the other people in the holo, busy marvelling over Master Luke as a fresh-faced boy grinning cheekily beside his sister, or a roguish, frankly _alarmingly_ handsome Han who seemed to have a talent for rolling his eyes at the camera while coincidentally presenting his most flattering angle. And apparently, pictures are nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the real thing. She is dressed smartly in elegant cream colors, her shining brown hair a braided crown encircling her head, dark eyes sharp in a sweet face.

 

It occurs to Rey that Leia is not _that_ much older than her here, and it does something funny to her insides.

 

Leia coyly takes in her son from the corner of her eye, clearly no longer truly paying attention to the holopad clutched in her lap. “A change of plans today,” she tells him, maintaining a playfully businesslike tone as though he is not her child but a colleague of great importance, and Rey is right there with him as little Ben’s heart dares to lift.

 

For all intents and purposes, it is not a particularly eventful day. The shuttle leaves them off in a neatly maintained park where they have lunch in the grass by a fountain, and they wander the shops around the perimeter of this oasis in Coruscant, Leia occasionally buying her son a trinket here and there. Han is conspicuously absent from this memory, and Rey is sure this is a purposeful choice. But she treasures each second, each detail that passes from him to her, the feeling of safety and contentment even on such a normal day. Her own memories from this age are not half so happy.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, and it stings to realize she has nothing to give him in return that might distract from their burdens tonight.

 

_I disagree,_ Kylo thinks, just before his mouth finds the side of her neck.

 

Rey should really be embarrassed by the sound that escapes from her, but instead all she can feel is how hearing it fills him with something bright and burning, the way the Light had while she’d been healing him.    

 

“Ben,” she whispers, the name pulled from her involuntarily, and nearly claps a hand over her mouth as he stiffens behind her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out immediately, “The memory—being in your head—”

 

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, still at her neck, and goosebumps run down her back.

 

It’s not that he hates the name, not anymore. No, the continued eschewal of his true name has _not_ been his own choice, but rather a condition of his arrangement with the Resistance. Kylo Ren was the name he betrayed his uncle and all his fellow students to assume; Kylo Ren was the name under which he oppressed and murdered and terrorized; Kylo Ren was the name people learned to fear as he cut a bloody swath across the galaxy as Snoke’s mad dog. And so Kylo Ren he was to remain in all official matters, even with the Resistance, and even supposedly in private, until it was decided that he had earned back the right to a name not weighed down with so much terrible history, to be _Ben Solo_ once again.

 

Rey knows that Leia still uses her son’s true name when it’s just the two of them, but Rey herself has never called him Ben to his face, not since their days as enemies when she used it as a taunt. It was a way to cut him down to size as they dueled, simultaneously hoping it would unsettle him enough to plant the seeds of doubt that might eventually bring him home. Back then it used to enrage him, but now...now, Rey swears she feels a spike of longing pierce through him, one he can’t seem to give words to no matter how intensely she can feel that he wants to reply.

 

“Was that Coruscant?” Rey asks, taking mercy on him. “It’s beautiful.”

 

“On the surface, maybe,” Ben murmurs. “Beneath it’s all rot.”

 

It always shocks her how deftly he manages to cram two conflicting emotions into one statement—a bitter and yet oddly wistful tone that might confuse others, but which Rey recognizes as the exact same way she often speaks about Jakku. The strange way you can miss a place where you knew sorrow, because some pains are simpler than others.

 

“I’d still like to see it for myself,” Rey says.

 

He snorts. “There are at least a dozen more preferable planets that I can think of where you can experience the wonder of having your credit chip pickpocketed.”

 

Rey frowns. “Where would you have us go, then? If you’ve got such strong opinions about it.”

 

“Us, hm?” Ben whispers into her hair, and she swears it must be a Force technique, the way he can make his words drip down her spine like that.

 

“Well, I’d need a co-pilot, obviously,” she tells him, her tone overly practical in an attempt to disguise the thudding of her heart, “And I think Chewie’s a bit sick of chauffeuring me around the galaxy.”

 

“Anywhere you want,” Ben says, after a moment. “Except Coruscant.”

 

“Come _on_ ,” Rey says, disappointed in the yawn that warps the end of her words. She tries to push through it, going on, “In the whole galaxy, where’s the _one_ place you want to go more than anything?”

 

“The only place either of us should be thinking about going is to bed. I mean—” Ben cuts off suddenly before she herself has even really fully registered the suggestiveness of his words, and _stars_ she wishes she was facing him right now, because she could swear she feels his whole body ignite in mortification, “to _sleep._ ”

 

“No,” she says, and hates how exhaustion sucks the intended firmness from it and leaves a frightened whisper in its place.

 

“Whether you want to or not, you are going to fall asleep right here if you don’t move soon,” Ben states rather matter-of-factly. “I can feel it. And I don’t think your friends would react well if they saw me carrying your unconscious body out of the forest. Again.”

 

He’s not wrong there, but…

 

“I can’t,” Rey breathes. She doesn’t think she can face another morning waking up to a room full of concerned looks, having to wonder exactly what it was she might have said or done in her sleep to warrant them. Why can’t she sleep right where she is now, with night glimmering in the stars above and the water below, with such solid warmth wrapped around her that her nightmares seem a lifetime away? And most importantly, in what seems like the one place on the entire base where she can be away from prying eyes?

 

And then something occurs to her.

 

There had been quite a bit of gossip when the Resistance learned that not only had the much-loathed Kylo Ren unexpectedly come over to their side, but that he would be living and working amongst them as well. Almost everything about life on base was done in close quarters; they ate together in a mess hall, slept approximately twenty to a room in the barracks, and even had to stomach bathing side-by-side in the communal ‘freshers. Not a person among them had wanted to do any of that with Kylo Ren at their side, but the question of where he would be lodging inspired an especially hysterical response.

 

It had been fairly obvious that putting him in with the other men in the barracks was out of the question, so for the safety of all involved—and against all established policies, many had grumbled—Ren had been given quarters in a converted holding cell. Rey doubts the implications of the room are ever far from his mind, but it is _private_ , and likely the only reason his throat wasn’t slit in the night during his first few months among the Resistance.

 

And it’s perhaps the only place she has a chance of sleeping through the night with her dignity intact.

 

“The longer you put it off, the worse it’ll be,” Ben tells her, and the sorrow of experience is clear in the soft tones of his voice.

 

“Fine,” Rey says, reluctantly disentangling herself from his arms so she can pivot around to face him, still seated between his knees on the wooden dock, “I’ll go to bed. Under _one_ condition.”

 

An eyebrow quirks on his pale face, his dark eyes wary of yet another of her schemes. “Which is?”

 

Heat pools in her cheeks before she can even form the words, but she lifts her chin almost defiantly, mustering every ounce of courage she might possess before blurting out:

 

“ _Your_ bed.”

 

And such an utterly dumbfounded look on _Kylo Ren’s_ face might have made her laugh, if it weren't for the fact that yet again, she finds herself seriously contemplating pitching herself into the water if his answer is _no._

 

The silence that passes is only the space of a few heartbeats, but it’s still long enough for the first tendrils of dread to begin to curl through her—until he swallows hard, pale throat bobbing visibly.

 

“Alright,” he tells her softly, his voice catching almost imperceptibly, and slowly, unsurely, offers a hand, as though to help her stand.

 

Always a way with words, this one. She feels her lips twitch with an almost-smile.

 

“Alright,” she echoes, with a little half-laugh of sheer relief.

 

And slides her hand into his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, thank you for reading! And thank you especially for the inspiration to keep this story going just a little bit longer, as I was pretty undecided on whether or not it should be a one-shot or a chaptered fic. Thoughts on what happens next are very, very welcome :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night goes on...and on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I almost finished off this story without passing on something very important to me and this fic:
> 
> [The album "Threads" by Now, Now.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUxfnCfZOQg&)
> 
> The opener of this album, "The Pull," and the following song, "Prehistoric," (and the way they transition into each other) are not only my end-all-be-all Reylo songs, but are also the source of this fic's title and my inspiration in general. The whole album is fantastic and romantic and desperate, but those two destroy me every time. I hope some of you take a moment to listen and enjoy. And thank you for reading!

“Hold up.” The back of Poe’s hand suddenly slaps against Finn’s chest. They’d been heading back to the drinks table, but at his motion, the two of them halt in their steps. “Is that—?”

 

Confused at first, Finn squints at the treeline where the pilot seems to be looking. He can’t quite make them out at first, what with his vision blurred from many rounds of drinks and the fact that the outdoor lighting doesn’t reach far enough to illuminate the edge of the forest—but then two figures finally register clearly. A shorter, slighter figure drifting side-by-side with a much broader, taller silhouette who has an all-too-familiar striding gait. Despite himself, his stomach clenches.

 

“Rey,” he confirms grimly.

 

“And _Kylo Ren?”_ Poe adds, utterly flabbergasted. “Are they— _holding hands?”_

 

Finn squints some more, and sure enough, he can just barely see how their arms stay suspiciously close together, as though their hands are indeed clasped.

 

Finn stares for another moment, and then resolutely decides: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Hang on,” Poe says, leveling a look of shock at his dance partner, “Did you _know_ about this?”

 

In retrospect, Finn isn’t sure when _not_ talking about something has ever been an option with Poe. “Not...exactly,” he admits reluctantly.

 

Poe cocks an eyebrow.

 

Finn sighs, casting another glance at Rey and Kylo in the distance. They seem to be abandoning the party altogether, heading off to one of the buildings. Even from this distance he can see how Kylo’s head is angled toward his companion, letting her lead him almost blindly rather than looking ahead on his own.

 

“You were never on a ground mission with the two of them, were you?” Finn asks, despite knowing the answer. Poe shakes his head.

 

“Yeah, well, you lucked out,” he continues, “He’s _completely_ in love with her. Made being on a transport with them awkward as hell. One time I took the last seat next to her and I thought he was going to incinerate me. Wasn’t really up to date on the fact that it appears to be mutual, though.”

 

“You’re kidding,” Poe huffs a laugh in disbelief.

 

“It’s hard to know what’s going on with her sometimes,” Finn says, “But they’re freaky together. That...connection thing they’ve got going on. It’s like talking to one person with two heads.” He watches them finally disappear out of sight behind one of the buildings—and makes a firm decision not to try and remember which of them Kylo Ren rooms in. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but being linked to someone like that...”

 

“Yeah. Intense,” Poe murmurs. Then he seems to shake himself, lets a smile creep back into his voice. “Jeez. You turn around for five minutes...” Poe says, looping an arm around Finn’s waist and pulling him closer, shrugging. “But, hey, I’ve never known that girl to do anything half-cocked. So whatever makes her happy, I guess.”

 

“Yeah,” Finn agrees, turning his attention to more important matters and letting himself be drawn in, “You’re right. But it’s still weird.”

 

“Oh, absolutely. The weirdest.”

  


* * *

 

As two figures pass by her office window, Leia turns triumphantly to face her brother, who is seated in the chair across from her.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I see ‘em,” Luke grumbles before she can say anything, rummaging in the pocket of his robes. “What did we say, twenty credits?”

 

* * *

  


Rey isn’t quite sure how they manage to make it across the base without running into anyone else, but before she knows it Kylo is pushing open an armor-plated door and standing back to allow her entry into his room.

 

It’s certainly not much. Rey turns in a slow circle as she looks around the small space: the room’s origins as a holding cell are quite evident, the walls barren save for a bench bolted into the duracrete. She can see the spot where a similarly bolted-down table must have been pried up from the floor. There’s nothing else in the room except for one of the modestly sized beds every other soldier on base sleeps in, gray blankets and all, and a single trunk at the foot of it. The sole overhead light casts a lackluster glow over the room with not even a window to further brighten the space.

 

She turns to watch as Kylo eases the door shut with a solid-sounding _clunk_ , and he winces slightly—yet more evidence that this room was designed to contain someone against their will. They regard each other in silence for a moment, Rey by the bed and Kylo with his back pressed to the closed door, several feet of empty space between them.  

 

“It’s perfect,” she says finally, sinking on to the bed. Even though the Resistance-issued mattresses leave quite a bit to be desired, the give of the springs and thin cushion beneath her weight might as well be down feathers fit for royalty; the simple fact that a wonderful, solid door separates her from dozens of pairs of worried eyes is a luxury beyond comprehension.

 

The eyes that _do_ remain flicker over her, studying the scene before him as though there’s something crucial he is desperately trying not to miss.

 

“I’m glad,” Kylo says softly, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. Then he peels himself off from the door—but rather than coming towards her, he begins a slow tread along the modest length of the room. He’s heading for the wall opposite the bed, the one with the bench likely meant as a purposefully uncomfortable seat for detainees to sweat out their impending interrogations.

 

Oh, stars. This idiot.

 

“Ben,” Rey says gently, watching as he begins to shrug out of his jacket with his back to her, “Where are you going?”

 

He twists to look at her over his shoulder, eyes warily flicking between the bed and the bench as though it should be obvious.  

 

Rey feels her mouth twist. “I didn’t come here to kick you out of your own bed.”

 

She presses a hand to the spot beside her on the mattress, and it’s difficult to tell in the dim, yellow-tinged lighting, but she could swear his face pales even more than its usual state in that instant.

 

Kylo turns to face her fully, jacket now twisted awkwardly in his hands. Having removed this outer layer leaves him in a simple undershirt, long-sleeved and dark gray in color, with a notch at the neckline that reveals some of the skin beneath the hollow of his throat. The material is thin, clearly suited to the planet’s humid weather, and does nothing to disguise the solid arms and chest beneath the fabric. Rey feels her mouth go a bit dry, and inwardly has to resist the urge to laugh that somehow _he’s_ the one nervous to get in a bed with _her._

 

“There...isn’t a lot of room,” he says finally, and Rey glances down briefly. True, it looks like this bed barely holds him on his own on a normal day, but that seems so utterly beside the point right now.

 

“Just...come here?” she asks, “Please?”

 

And it’s that last part that seems to break the spell. The look on his face is still so controlled, so eternally wary, but he tosses his jacket on to the trunk at the foot of the bed and closes the remaining distance between them with a few measured steps. Rey peers up at him as he towers in front of where she sits on the edge of the mattress.

 

In spite of this whole thing being _her_ idea, Rey’s insides still jump erratically as he sits and the bed creaks and dips with the addition of his weight beside her.

 

Suddenly, she has no idea how she thought having him this close would facilitate sleep in any way whatsoever.

 

Despite the guarded expression, his dark, searching eyes are suddenly much, much too intense, and so she scooches as far down as she can, inclining her head to indicate that he should lie down first. After all, the only way they’re going to fit together on this thing is vertically.

 

Obediently, he sheds his boots and shifts his legs up on to the bed as well, reclining slowly until his head hits the pillow.

 

Rey kicks off her own shoes and turns, coming up on to her knees on the bed and taking the opportunity to look down at him stretched out beneath her, all long legs and smooth, flat planes of torso. She freezes for a moment, heart thundering in her throat as her eyes rake over him, before carefully reaching out to plant her hands on either side of him and slowly lowering herself down.

 

If you had asked her before tonight, Rey would’ve told you that there was no logical reason to assume lying on top of someone like this should be appealing in any way whatsoever, at least in terms of comfort. The human body is an inconvenient mix of vulnerable soft spots and bony protrusions that should make for the _least_ agreeable sleeping spot imaginable. And indeed, there’s a moment of awkward shifting and settling, of twisting so elbows aren’t pressed into each other and no one’s lungs are compressed to the point of asphyxiation, where Rey wonders if this wasn’t such a great idea in spite of everything else that’s happened between them tonight.

 

But then, blessedly, she gives one final squirm and all discomfort seems to fade at once, leaving her nestled atop him with a cheek pressed to his chest. In that instant, it all clicks into place. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the thin fabric of his shirt, suffusing her with a kind of immediate peace that not even her most successful meditation has ever provided. The slightest buzz in her head remains from their earlier drinking session, prompting Rey to let her eyes slide shut, reveling in the pleasant throb of a body warmed by alcohol.

 

“Is this okay?” Rey finds herself whispering.

 

Her head moves with him as his chest rises, falls. “Yes,” he says quietly.

 

She feels the weight of Kylo’s arm settle tentatively across her mid-back like a finishing touch, one broad hand resting flat between her shoulder blades, and something about it manages to drain the very last of the tension out of her all at once. The gentle in and out of their breath is the only sound that occupies the room.

 

And yet, as the moments pass, she’s still awake. The rapid beat the of the heart beneath her ear tells her that she’s not the only one, either.

 

To Rey’s surprise, she isn’t the one to break the silence.

 

“In your dream,” Kylo murmurs, “What happens?”

 

She must hesitate for too long, because his voice comes again before she has even started the process of choosing her words.

 

“It used to be that I couldn’t tell which of my dreams were my own and which were Snoke in my head,” he tells her, voice oddly calm for such a heartbreaking statement, “He had been manipulating my thoughts for so many years it was impossible to tell the difference...until he finally summoned me to him. That’s when I noticed.”

 

Rey’s reply is so quiet she herself can barely hear it, afraid to interrupt such an uncharacteristically verbose moment from him. “Noticed what?”

 

A pause. And then he says, “He was making himself taller.”

 

For a moment, Rey thinks she’s misheard him. “...Taller,” she echoes.

 

“There were these markings on the back of his throne, two lines coming down from the center—perhaps you remember,” Kylo goes on, by way of affirmation. “In the dreams I would have of him, the ones I now know were him invading my mind, his head always reached the highest point of them. But when I finally saw him in person...the gap between his head and the markings had to be at least six inches. Probably slightly more.”

 

There’s a very odd feeling blooming in Rey’s chest. “But...he was already taller than _you._ ”

 

“He was,” Kylo confirms.

 

“And he...he still…”

 

“He was _extremely_ vain,” Kylo goes on. “He used to electrocute people for staring too long. At his core he was full of the weakness and fear that he always disparaged in others. He was a parasitic old man who so dreaded his own decline that he had to invade the minds of others to sap their strength, and took the time to make himself look _taller_ while he did so.”

 

Though he never raises his voice above the quiet murmur that rumbles in his chest beneath her ear, each new word sheds his earlier almost irreverent calm, instead dripping with venom, burning with a quiet yet palpable rage.

 

“The instant you ignited that lightsaber on Starkiller I knew you would be the one who could do it. The one who would be strong enough to stop him. That’s why I tried to bring you to my side. I wanted you to fight for me, as little as I deserved it.”

 

The sudden trickle of a tear escaping from the corner of her eye almost makes Rey jump, so unaware was she of the moisture gathering in her eyes. It leaves a hot trail across her skin, running down the side of her face towards where her cheek presses to the fabric of Kylo’s shirt. Perhaps he feels it, because the hand not resting on her back comes up to gently trace the line of her jaw, ghosting down to her chin before gently urging it up with a finger, spurring her to lift her head slightly and meet his eyes.

 

It’s almost more than she can take, the seriousness of his face, the endless dark of his eyes focused solely on her. She is transfixed by them, by the feel of something greater than simple comfort behind his words.

 

“You are stronger than me,” he tells her, “And you were stronger than him. You burned him from this world when all others had failed. Whatever mark he has left on you will fade. Believe that.”

 

Normally she’d stop at nothing to prevent someone from seeing her cry, most _especially_ him, but now Rey simply stares at him, feeling the heat of another tear slip down her cheek. She doesn’t even wipe it away. As she studies the lines and angles of his face, it strikes her how familiar he has become to her: not just the line of the scar she left him, but the freckles scattered at random, the crooked fullness of his mouth, the way the skin around his eyes wrinkles when he truly, desperately needs her to listen. But there’s something different about him now, something that takes her a few slow, reverent seconds to fully grasp.

 

In this moment, there is none of the usual darkness about him. Not even a trace. Only light exists in this room now, despite the anger of his earlier words; Rey can feel it blooming in the space between them, whispering in the air, filling her chest until she thinks she can’t hold anymore. It’s all around them. All around _him._

 

She wonders if he can sense it the way she does, if he’s aware of the change in himself. But she hasn’t come this far to shatter the moment for him by pointing it out, analyzing it, filling him with self consciousness. So she chooses her next words carefully.

 

“Liar,” Rey says, as teasingly as her quavering voice will allow. One of his eyebrows arches in question, and she feels her mouth tremble as she arranges it into a fragile little smile, “You told me you couldn’t heal.”

 

His lips twitch, as close as he himself can get to a smile at the moment, and holds her eyes as the hand under her chin drifts down to instead entwine with the fingers of one of her hands resting on his chest. He raises it to his mouth, twisting their wrists to press a kiss to the back of her hand.

 

“Sleep,” he urges her.

 

And, surprisingly, she does.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in many, many nights, she does not dream of Snoke.

 

* * *

 

 

When Rey next opens her eyes, she can tell right away that only a few hours have passed. Though there’s no window in the room to let in natural light, there’s just something about the quiet atmosphere that feels distinctly like it’s still the middle of the night, a peacefulness that is impossible to recreate once the sun has risen. A squint at the chrono on the bedside table confirms that she has only been asleep for about two and a half hours, though she doesn’t remember the exact time that they laid down.

 

Sleepily, she wonders why she’s so _hot_ all of a sudden—and then the weight on her back finally registers, and instantly, she is much more awake.

 

This is not the position she fell asleep in.

 

Whereas before she’d been tucked somewhat innocently onto his chest, she now finds herself stretched out on her front on the mattress with Kylo similarly sprawled on top of her back, the weight of him practically crushing her into the bed. One of his arms is snaked around and under her, his broad hand pressed into her belly, the other tucked under the pillow beneath her head. She’s completely trapped under him, and it strikes her how _protective_ the position feels, the way his broad frame covers her back as though shielding her from something.

 

She can’t help it, her face heats at the new places he’s pressed so tightly against. The weight of him is actually much more pleasant than she would have anticipated, but there’s just a little too much pressure on her chest restricting her breathing for her to simply go back to sleep.

 

Rey adjusts herself as gently as she can beneath him, trying to shift some more of his weight to her lower back without waking him up. His mouth is so close to her ear that each slow, steady breath from him tickles the delicate skin beneath it, and something twists low in her belly at the sensation in combination with the heaviness of his body pressing into her. She wriggles her hips back against him minutely, trying to create just enough space for her to scooch up slightly to improve her position, when she feels something insistently poking into her backside. She freezes instantly, her whole body suddenly flaring hot.  

 

Kylo’s next breath at her ear comes as more of a shuddering sigh, although as Rey listens for one mortified moment, motionless against him, it becomes clear that he’s still asleep.

 

Heart thundering in her throat, Rey is absolutely certain that what she _ought_ to do now is to just remain still and to try to go back to sleep—but the rush of heat between her thighs seems to throb impatiently at that thought. The blood seems to have left her head entirely, leaving her dizzier than when she’d tried to throw back half of Kylo’s flask earlier. Breathless, Rey experimentally presses back against him once more. Just the slightest, tiniest bit—just to make sure she’d really felt what she thinks she felt, she tells herself, to make sure she has her bearings on the situation—but of course she feels it again, quite obvious no matter how gently she presses against it.

 

This time his hand tightens on her belly in response, pulling her more firmly against him as he groans appreciatively in his sleep. She can’t withhold a whimper, both at the way he lazily angles his own hips into her to increase their contact and at how his hand seems to easily span the width of her, fingertips grasping at her softness.

 

“Ben,” she whispers, loath to do anything that might halt his attentions but now absolutely certain she can’t let him go on without letting his conscious self have a say in it, “ _Ben_.”

 

“Mmm?” he murmurs, clearly still through a haze of sleep, and the hand on her belly slides upward, finding the soft mound of one of her breasts and kneading it in his palm.  

 

“ _Ben!_ ” Rey practically squeaks, though still keeping her voice at a whisper.

 

She can feel the instant he wakes up, both through their bond and because of the way his entire body suddenly stiffens in horror behind her. Rey clasps her hand over the one cupping her breast. “It’s okay,” she whispers quickly, breathlessly, before he can start panicking or apologizing, “I just—didn’t want you to do anything you wouldn’t have wanted to do awake.”  

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles anyway, voice rough. Mortification absolutely _pours_ from his end of the bond. She feels him shifting, beginning to get up, the thoughts utterly unguarded having been just roused from sleep. _Should have taken the bench, idiot, what were you thinking—_

 

“Ben Solo, if you get out of his bed on account of some misplaced sense of chivalry,” Rey tells him, “I will cut you in half with your own lightsaber.”

 

She intends it to lighten the mood, but he seems too stunned to laugh. “Rey,” he breathes, sounding as if he thinks there’s no possible way she can mean what he thinks she means.

 

Rey isn’t sure how much clearer she can get, practically squeezing her own breast with his hand, but his reluctance is beginning to make her self-conscious. Tentatively, she presses her hips back against him once more.

 

“I thought...I thought this meant you wanted me?” she whispers.

 

Ben swears under his breath, and she feels him press his forehead against her—an attempt to center himself. It has the exact opposite effect on _her_ , though, sending a wave of goosebumps down her neck. “I do,” he breathes, “But you don’t have to do anything because of me.”

 

“I know,” she whispers. “But I want to.”

 

For an instant, it’s like he’s stopped breathing. “Turn around,” he says suddenly, shifting his weight off her back to make it possible—and oh, the note of desperation mixed with the command hits her core like a jolt. Rey obeys without hesitation, rolling over on to her side to face him, and her first thought is that nothing could’ve prepared her for how _appealing_ he looks, waves of dark hair mussed from sleep and brown eyes heavy-lidded and yet trained on her with laser focus.

 

“Now,” he murmurs, “Say that again while I can see you.”

 

With his soft, deep voice hushed for just her to hear, Rey thinks she’d have trouble denying him anything so long as he asked like that. Ignoring the flush blooming insistently across her face, she bites her lip, unable to pull her gaze away from his even if she’d wanted.

 

“I want to,” she repeats in a whisper.

 

“What do you want?” Ben probes further, and she can see in his eyes he’s not asking to inflate his own ego, nor to embarrass her. No, he _needs_ her to hear her say it.

 

An unexpected surge of mischievousness washes over Rey, and she relishes in the way his eyes drop to take in the way her mouth quirks up irresistibly on one side. She lets a hand creep between them to settle on his chest, fingers splaying out over the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.

 

“Can I touch you?” she asks, and knows that for as long as she lives she will remember the way his eyes practically go black with desire. Ben’s jaw works for a moment before he can manage a response.

 

“Please,” he rasps finally. Rey smiles and hooks her fingers into the neckline of his shirt, tugging at it.

 

“Off?” she asks, and then nearly gasps at how quickly he bolts upright to wrench the garment over his head. His sudden surge of eagerness shocks a giggle out of her, one that dies instantly when she sees the way he’s looking down at her, pure hunger written all over his face.

 

Rey lets her hand wander lazily, trailing up his well muscled back and then down his side, finger hooking into a belt loop and giving that a pluck much like she’d done to his shirt.

 

“And these?” she whispers, finding her voice much more timid all of a sudden.

 

Ben quirks an eyebrow at her.

 

“This seems a bit uneven, don’t you think?” he murmurs, eyes flicking meaningfully down her still very much clothed front.

 

Rey can’t keep the guilty grin off her face, even as it flares scarlet. “Oops,” she whispers, without a trace of genuine remorse to be found.

 

With that, Ben is braced over her in a flash, caging her in between his arms and the length of his body suddenly pressed against hers. “You’ve never played fair, have you?” he practically growls, before capturing whatever reply she’d been about to give by crushing his mouth to hers. This kiss reminds her of the final one he’d given her down on the bridge just before they’d had to move to avoid being discovered—only there’s no one to walk in on them now, nothing to hinder the way his lips work against hers, burning and all-consuming like a flame.

 

They’re both gasping when he finally breaks away from her, and the fact that the evidence of his arousal is now even more obvious and pressed tight against her front doesn’t help her get her breath back one bit. Propping himself on one elbow, Ben’s hand traces down her body, finding the spot where her wrap-style tunic ties at the side of her waist. He plays with the thin string looped into a bow there before ducking his head so that his mouth hovers just by her ear.  

 

“Off?” he whispers, an echo of her first, playful request, and Rey thinks her heart might actually burst fully from her chest.

 

In answer, she brings her own hand up to wrap around his. Slowly, the two of them pull the tie together, undoing the simple knot until both sides of the string hang loose from the cloth. For all the heat of a moment before, Ben’s eyes seek hers with a question in them as he moves to finger the overlapping fabric, one that Rey answers with just the tiniest nod—and then he is peeling the edges of cloth apart, unwrapping her as she lies beneath him. Rey shivers as his long fingers graze the skin of her stomach.

 

She lifts her shoulders just enough to shrug out of the garment, leaving her in nothing more than her leggings and the length of fabric wrapped around her chest.

 

“Your turn again,” she whispers, and Ben lifts his reverent gaze from the expanse of her skin to catch her eyes, before flicking them down meaningfully again.

 

_Oh._

 

Rey lifts her hands to his chest again, trailing fingertips slowly down, down over his stomach to the waist of his pants. When they find the button of his pants, it seems a miracle that she manages to undo them at all considering how much her hands are shaking.

 

Ben returns to his side on the mattress then, lifting his hips to shuck the fabric down before kicking free of them altogether.

 

Mouth suddenly dry, Rey is unsure whether it’s considered impolite to stare or not. The insistent hardness she’d felt pressed against her had certainly _felt_ significant, but that, apparently, was nothing compared to the actual sight of it, now free from the more restrictive material of his pants and straining against the thinner fabric of his boxers.

 

It feels like it takes an age for her hand to cross the small space between their bodies, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she’s certain she’d miss anything he said to her right now. Luckily, it seems that ragged breaths are the only sound he’s capable of the moment her hand presses to the flat of his stomach, fingers drinking in the hot skin and hard muscle beneath them before she summons the courage to slowly, slowly drag them south. Watching her hand disappear beneath the waistband seems like a scene from someone else’s life, some other girl with the luxury of letting the world disappear; the slide of skin and throb of blood and the face of her lover the only things left that matter.

 

She wraps her fingers around him carefully, as though afraid to hurt him. The length of him is hot and heavy in her hand, and he practically hisses as she changes her grip experimentally, doing nothing to dispel her impression of it being possibly painful.

 

“Is that right?” Rey whispers tentatively. For all the lust and _want_ clouding her head, she’s still a bit intimidated by the lack of experience making itself known in the back of her mind.

 

The corners of his lips twitch, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah,” Ben murmurs, his voice thick and far less eloquent than usual, “It’s...it’s good.”

 

Well then.

 

Emboldened, Rey begins to stroke him steadily, high on the feeling of watching him writhe beneath her touch—although as her hand explores him, she can’t help wondering _how_ in the stars he’s supposed to fit inside her.

 

To her surprise, Ben’s hand suddenly reaches down to still her movements, his fingers gently grasping her wrist.

 

Those dark eyes slide open reluctantly. “If you keep going like that, I don’t think we’ll get a chance to find out,” he explains, dragging in a shaky breath as if trying to steady himself.

 

Even as his words make her flush with anticipation—and no small amount of pride—she can’t seem to prevent the little groan of disappointment that escapes her at being made to stop touching him. The hazy lust clouding Ben’s eyes seems to change form at the sound of it, his gaze suddenly sharpening on her, darker and more focused as his own hands begin to creep toward her.

 

“Impatient, are we?” he asks, his voice so low she can almost feel the baritone rumble of his voice in her own chest, and beneath the rush of desire, Rey can’t help but marvel at how easily she responds to him, how every side of him seems to hold its own attraction. The gruff, sarcastic part of him she’d come upon down at the bridge that had been afraid to let the smallest hint of his true feelings show; the unabashed sweetness of the man who had held her by the lake and dried her tears; the self-conscious uncertainty that had nearly driven him to sleep on a cold metal bench in an attempt at chivalry; and yes, now, even this: the dark, prowling confidence of a dangerous man who knows what he wants. The part of him she’d been glad to have at her side in battle, to stand against their enemies. The part that had roared as he stepped between her and Snoke to intercept what very may well have turned out to be a killing blow.     

His statement was meant as a tease, but the feeling inside her as she looks upon him is quite serious all of a sudden. “I need you,” Rey whispers, partially in answer, but more because it’s the truth. She makes no attempt to shield the depth of that statement across the bond.

 

_There is no part of me you don’t have,_ he tells her, his eyes softening, and when she reaches for him he drags her into his arms, hands parting the remaining clothes from her skin.

 

_Closer, closer,_ their minds echo, and neither of them can tell who it comes from first, but the repetitive demand is only slightly soothed as his broad hand palms the aching space between her legs. Rey rocks against him as he eases a finger into her, and Ben makes a sound almost like a gasp before lowering his head to capture her mouth.

 

She’s explored herself before, of course, but her own touch felt _nothing_ like this. Rey feels herself arching her back, parting her legs wider to give him better access as he strokes inside her, the flat of his hand rubbing her almost to the point of delirium.

 

It’s harder and harder to tell each other’s thoughts apart now, the both of them half in each other’s heads. A sudden agreement passes between them, exchanged in the silence between each gasp, each connection of their lips, and then Ben is hovering over her, caging her in with an arm propping him up on either side of her head. Rey can’t help but see herself through his eyes, how the sight of the slight curves of her body beneath him are like the answer to a prayer he’d whispered to himself every night of his life, how he looks at her like a lifelong devout might look upon the gates of his afterlife. It feels like an eternity that he drinks her in, but he stops once he gets to her eyes, dark brown searing into gold-flecked hazel. That’s where he stays, then, even as he sheds the last bit of fabric keeping them apart, even as his hands move to position himself between her legs.  

 

The intensity of his gaze combined with the feeling of him nudging at her entrance is almost too much for Rey to bear. It’s—it’s like she’s seeing and feeling _all_ of him, laid completely bare to her beyond simple physical nudity.

 

“You’ve wanted this,” she whispers reverently, so overwhelmed by the truth of him that she’s unable to keep from echoing it aloud, not so unalike that first time years ago. _You’re afraid._ She knows him. She sees him. He is hers.

 

When she reaches up to brush his cheek, he still doesn’t leave her eyes, not even as he whispers back, “You have no idea for how long.”

 

Well, she has _some_ idea, based on the image he’d shown her of herself back on the dock by the lake. That had been only a few months after their encounter on Starkiller, when the bond between them was still so raw and new, terrifying the both of them every time it unexpectedly reared its head and allowed them to bleed into each other’s minds. Rey dips back through the bond to that memory, seeing herself through his eyes again, but letting herself feel the moment in its entirety the way she’d prevented herself from doing so earlier.

 

_Missing the point as usual_ , he’d chastised her, but this time it’s loud and clear.

 

It was the moment that everything had clicked for him; the reason that he dreamed of her every night, the reason he could hardly eat, the reason that he seemed to be able to think more clearly around her, and yet every encounter with her left him torn apart with self doubt when he returned to the influence of his master. The reason he would eventually abandon everything to stand at her side. To shield her back. To walk her path. To nearly _die_ for her.

 

He was in love with her. Blindingly. Painfully. He was fairly certain it was going to kill him.

 

“Say it,” Rey begs, hands finding his hips and sinking fingers into his skin.

 

“I love you,” he gasps, beginning to ease slowly forward, stopping suddenly as Rey hisses sharply. _Fuck._ It’s no surprise, of course, considering the size of him and all she’s been told to expect about the first time, but it’s still a little hard to bear in those first white-hot seconds. Ben dips down to soothe what he can with a kiss, and when she begs _keep going_ across their bond, he pulls back to whisper, “I love you,” a second time against her lips, repeating the process again and again as he slowly sinks deeper and deeper into her with each push of his hips.

 

Rey feels her jaw drop open slightly when he finally stops, somehow fully sheathed inside her—and suddenly, the sting of the stretch is much less, now more of a _fullness_ she’d never realized was possible. The broad shape of him over her, shielding her, touches some part of her deeper still.

 

“I love _you_ ,” Rey chokes out, the words all but wrenched out of her by the sheer weight of the moment. She’s almost unable to believe it herself, the utter, coincidental insanity that any two people could feel this way about each other at the same time, the simple miracle that they’d even managed to exist in the same lifetime.

 

This, it seems, briefly breaks him. His disjointed thoughts, which had until now been focused on holding back his urge to thrust before she’s ready, melt away abruptly, and his weight shifts to one arm as the other snakes beneath her back to gather her tightly to his chest. Rey throws her arms around his neck in response, her reaction practically automatic, and presses her lips to his ear to say it back just as many times as he’d said it to her, over and over again like a mantra. _I love you. I love you. I love you. I—_

 

And then he’s moving, and there’s not much to her thoughts at all after that, unable to keep much more in her head than the feel of their bodies rocking together, finally, finally, _finally._

 

He’s slow, overly cautious with her at first, so aware of that initial pain, but the tight fit of him inside her is more of a wonder now, a deliciously curious feeling. She chases that pressure down with a few experimental swirls of her hips before widening her legs to draw him in just that slightest bit deeper, eliciting a strangled little noise from his throat. The slow, throbbing movement of them together is more natural, more instinctual than Rey could have imagined; how silly to think she’d ever felt self-conscious about her inexperience when they’d practically been _built_ for each other. There is no way for him to miss the keening plea across the bond for _deeper, closer, there_ , just as it’s impossible for her to ignore the surge of ecstasy that swallows him when she twines her legs around his, when she clutches desperately at the backs of his thighs—when she does _anything_ , really.

 

It all feels so _good_ that it almost surprises Rey as she notes the slow, coiling tension in her core, a mounting kind of pressure beginning to build. As if she’d nearly forgotten that this was part of it, that their pleasure was supposed to come to a head rather than stretching on infinitely—forgotten that she’d ever have to stop.

 

She feels Ben’s excitement spike as he picks up on the subject of her thoughts, and his movements become more insistent, although never losing that steady, breath-stealing pace. _Let me give this to you_ , he’s thinking, _come for me, let me make you come—_

 

The frenzied desperation of those pleas seem to affect _him_ as well, though, and the back-and-forth motion of his hips begins to stutter, becoming harder, more irregular as he starts to lose control.

 

“Rey,” he groans, and it seems to be a warning, an apology, and a curse all at once—but the ragged rasp of his voice is what does it, what finally sends her over the edge. His name is ripped from her lips as pleasure surges through her and burns her clean, and she’s unable to do much more but cling to him and ride it out as he too comes apart above her, all semblance of control now gone as he drives her down into the mattress, panting as his thrusts slow, slow, and finally stop.  

 

He doesn’t collapse on her, exactly, but there’s nowhere else in this insufficiently sized bed for him to rest but directly on top of her, so Ben settles his weight across her as gently as he can. It’s surprisingly cozy, perhaps because this time he’s taken the time to make sure the mass of him isn’t compressing her lungs, and Rey hums in contentment, hands coming up to glide over the muscles of his back as he turns his head to press kisses to the side of her neck.   

 

Rey wonders if, normally, one is supposed to say something now, but the silence as the both of them catch their breath is actually quite comfortable. And anyway, there’s never truly silence between them. The closest they can get to silence still lets images and feelings bleed across the bond, and little snatches of words drift across as well: _beautiful, unbelievable, mine, mine, mine._ Rey feels Ben lazily scanning her, checking for signs of pain or discomfort in her, and she lets him feel the full force of her afterglow in response, warm and full and beginning to pull her under.

 

It’s possible she’ll be sore tomorrow—but then, a lot of things are possible tomorrow. Rey lets her hand travel upward, trailing the back of Ben’s neck before lacing into his hair, dragging nails lightly across his scalp. He practically _purrs_ in response.

 

Yes, she thinks. Plenty of things are possible tomorrow. But they will face them all.

 

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful friends, I thank you ALL for reading and for your wonderful comments, and above all, for your patience. I'm already pretty much a once-a-month updater at best, but I also wasn't having much luck healthwise in the past month which kind of robbed me of the energy to write. (Is it just me or was this January, like, a cursed month? I'm not sure I personally know anybody who had a good January.) Plus, I don't know if you can tell, but this is my first real foray into the smut department in my own writing and I REALLY wanted to make sure the tone felt right. Special shout out to [Ires](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ires/pseuds/Ires) for leaving a comment on the previous chapter that called out Kylo and Rey being awkward as hell about the bed situation almost right down to the last detail when I was about halfway done with that portion of the chapter---I shrieked, I tell you! Shrieked!! 
> 
> And yes, this is going to be the official end to this fic. You are all enchanting, magical sunflowers and I'm endlessly grateful for the encouragement I got to extend the first chapter into two more parts. I've always struggled with burning myself out on longer fics (apologies to anyone who is already well aware of this from the state of Ego Eris), but this has helped me find a middle ground where I can flourish and hopefully continuing writing stories of a similar length. Thank you all!!


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